


In-Between

by lorielen (culuyetille)



Series: Malfoycest extravaganza [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Malfoycest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-20
Updated: 2003-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/lorielen
Summary: Draco doesn't get much sleep when he's lonely. Away from his Father, it isn't all that hard to guess what does he think about.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Lucius Malfoy
Series: Malfoycest extravaganza [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117862
Kudos: 2





	In-Between

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, a fic with Draco's POV!! Not quite the typical son, though. This is for the people on the Pure_Blood_Is_Thicker_Than_Water group, who wrote wonderful fics that filled me with inspiration.  
> This might be a little confusing to read because all the ideas are jammed up together in long sentences. It came out like that because I was under the impression that Draco had more on his mind than grammar and punctuation rules as he suffered the affliction that is his Father's absence.

My eyes are sour.

Can you blame me?

...

My soul is restless.

-*-

It is not fire, nor is it ice. It can't be said to be a void or a million needles either. To try to describe pain is almost as futile and useless as the attempts to talk of love. Hurt has no source or form. It is a sensation, whilst love is a feeling. Both can kill you and make you live, everyone knows them to some extent. They are often found together.

Right now, for instance, I am experiencing the two of them. Having no other soul nearby than my own, I am busying myself with analysing them. It is curious how rational thinking does not apply in any manner to the issues I'm trying to lessen in my mind... But then, why should it?

It's the end of January. It's freezing cold even with the heating spells. I have not inherited Father's poor blood circulation, and yet furry blankets can't keep me warm. My thinking is far too complicated for the late hours that should be dedicated to sleep.

Only that the thoughts people usually have at this time of the night haunt me during the whole of my day, mock me with their very nature, that of illusions. And I hate and despise them, but they're all I have now.

All that can keep me warm...

I don't weep; Father deserves better. I shouldn't fantasise, because what my mind can come up with seems indescribably dull when compared to the memories of my Christmas break. Those are much more fluid, like a long-lasting wet dream.

I wonder if I've been taken by him from reality to a dream, or if I was finally awoken from a previous numb sleepiness to discover my pleasure.

My time away from him is the heaviest and most painful burden I've ever had to carry. I can just hope it isn't this bad to him...

Who am I fooling? My selfish soul yearns to know he's aching as much as I. It'd finish me up to know that he's not. How much, how so very much it means to me that what I feel be returned.

Lucius Malfoy is my everything. My Father. My Lover. My Love, the cause and purpose of my existence. So I'm sick in my adoration; in my place, anyone would do the exact same. Which is to crave him irrationally.

Nights aren't but torment when not shared with him. Then it becomes clear how dependant I am on him, and against that I don't struggle. I never have. The more I do is hold onto myself, curtains closed around my bed and heart, securing both for him. Him who owns them and me.

In the silence and stillness of the hours between midnight and dawn in the Slytherin Seventh Year Boys Dormitory, a force moves the curtains of my four-poster bed. A playful force that toys with the idea of exposing me and my need to the outer world, and that could be done by simple pulling of draperies. Instead something insinuates itself inside, shiny against the deep green of the fabric. Something that is of the likes of a translucent spider and makes me bite at my lower lip at the sight of it, although my arousal, not minding my knowing and fearful expression, begins to gather blood to the task of hardening.

All and any moral berating that might have been sparkled ends at the vision of my Father, owner of the pale hand, and my eyes run over his figure devoid of clothes, which never fails to bring me delight and send a jolt right to my groin.

He's being silent, strangely silent even. But his smile is mischievous and bright as he approaches, glowing in all the glory of a naked Malfoy. Angelic, he is, like me, the finest of sins.

He comes down on his side, laying by me, and whispers his greetings with profane familiarity against the skin of my neck. All the short hair there stands on an end and a shiver spirals down my spine and all but lingers on the ring of sensitised muscle that pleads for more of that presence.

Wordlessly as well, I lay content in being victim to a inspection gaze, feeling his hair brush against my nipples and harden them, shutting my eyes when his lips find my shoulder only to open them again all too soon, I want to see him, I'd never look away. A thumb teases at the base of my cock, where the skin joins with the scrotum, and my hips move up, welcoming him, the warmth that replaced the ice of my loneliness, inviting him to touch me, he is the one who knows how to do it best.

And gods but he does like to watch me, and I'd squirm under his ministrations even if I could help it, just for the sake of the pleased smile that comes to his lips when I respond to his touch, his treasured touch. Greetings, Precious, his tongue wets the circle of darker flesh around a nipple, flickering playfully over the sensitised little pinprick of flesh that must have the sole purpose of being toyed with by my Father, such is the lore that claims me at the briefest of contacts.

His movements are slow and deliberate; he must know all too well that I've been needing this, needing him, needing release and won't be able to hold on for long. He is intent on extending my pleasure, stretching it as far as it will go. I can't complain. All I do is wish that this would last forever.

Intimacy shows when he rests his cheek against my sternum. A hand lazily tugs at the hair around my arousal, and it is as careless and devoid of hurry as his calm and warm breathing.

Missed you, Draco. The words might have been whispered, or I may have picked them up in the very air. I know he means them. I so want him to.

These and other thoughts fade from my mind as long fingers wrap themselves around me, fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh just so. I instantly jerk up and into that had, that creamy hand, my eyes searching frantically for another pale of equally misty ones to see desire written there to mirror my own. Another hand sneaks its caressing way to my butt, it feels at my firm leg, testing the muscles there with evident satisfaction.

Draco Malfoy was born to please.

The hand at my erection won't move, nor will it lessen its steel grip on me. That makes me all the more aware of the path that the other fingered appendage is tracing on my skin.

Slim index and middle finger have found the entrance of that haven that is Father's. A soft brush, and is it the contact arousing me helpless or can it be blamed on the memory?

My hands are a copy of his own, I know it, I've seen them sprawled against each other so many times that there's no room for doubt. There shouldn't be, I am him, everything that is me isn't but his, him in so many ways. And yet my touch is clumsy and devoid of any trace of skill when compared to his, oh, it's his hands on me and I'm panting.

But not even I can be like him.

My member twitches as the hand leaves it, but soon I'm being overloaded with sensations again. My needy eyes add to the groan I let out unashamedly, for if there is one thing in this world that can turn on my Father is to hear the sounds I make for him and him alone, music of my divine rapture. Groaning all too soon becomes a sensuous, throaty purr at the feel of digits against my testicles. Lucius, you've always known, haven't you? You've known since forever that you and I share this little whim, this predilection that we both understand and know how to treat. My eyes close and my head is shot back in ecstasy, I must be quite the view and I'm sure he is loving it, my balls are being rocked gently against each other and he can be sure I'm loving this as well.

He'd like me to tell him. The words are Father's very essence. He is seldom silent, except when his mouth is busy with other things. But its favourite occupation remains talking, whispering, screaming and moaning and purring and everything in-between and he's as good at them as he is at making other people do them. And he makes me whimper for more of his touch even when I know in the back of my mind that the fingers teasing at my hole are my own. He murmurs, Beautiful, he tells me as his tongue leaves a trail of wet fire on my neck. Fingernails bury themselves in the sensitive skin of my scrotum and I want to rank them down his back in bittersweet thanks for the skilful ministrations, but both my hands are busy.

That is what is keeping me from reaching out to touch him.

Moreover, I needn't as he's all over me, catering to my craving; a thumb moves over the head of my stinging erection and I precum, and the palm that is wet and brought to my lips is his own, it's his face that contorts in pleasure as I lick the pale hand in front of me.

The fingers of my other hand are dripping moisture, the bottled cum that we use so that none of us is bruised too badly, although we both look so exquisitely alluring when covered in blood. We're the only ones worthy of shedding each other's blood and bask in it, him and I who share blood, body, soul and this torturing love. The inner side of my thighs is caressed softly, he's always so tender with me, he never wants me to hurt, when it happens he holds me close and showers my face with apologetic kisses, to me he's always soft and gentle and loving and that aches more than anything, that brand of power that I have other my Father and that no other could ever possess. So tight, he licks at my earshell and purrs, you're so tight, Draco, as a finger covered in the sticky liquid is sled inside of me, I arch, I want more of this, more of him, always more, I want him inside me and everywhere around as well, I want to breathe him.

My hips swing backwards, welcoming him and having the finger as deep inside me as it will go, my eyelashes flutter and all of me is trembling. My insides adapt to the presence of the lithe appendage, embodying it from all sides, expressing my desperate wish that he will stay so much better than I ever could through any other means.

The handling to my arousal is delicate and talented, fingertips rub at its sides, feeling at each bump of the pinkened hard flesh and I'm dizzy, I lean forward to bury my nose in his hair and smell him, smell and feel and hear him so that I know he's here. He's nipping at my collarbone and my nipples are hard already in anticipation of what will come, the sucking, the biting, the toying that has always been Father's way to deal with me. The fingernail of a thumb scratches at the inner side of one of my cheeks and soon there's another finger sneaking itself inside of me, testing my muscles, those muscles that have been designed to clamp around Father so tightly that he'll want to come then and there at the very penetration just so that I can see his face and know that it is a reflection of my own. I rock back against the long fingers, choking a moan of delight as they begin to stretch as if preparing me to be taken; cum drips from the tip of my arousal and deft fingertips are quick to spread it over the whole of the member, his tongue licking at my jugular suggestively as the little hole in the head is wiped clean.

Sharp intake of air turns into an unnamed sound as my cock is properly held at last, and I thrust into that hold, pheromones stamping over any shred of control and I just want his touch. My heightened senses make the soft chuckle he lets out to be something too complex to be gone over, and it is soon disregarded when his lips find my damp forehead to bestow a kiss there in all his fatherly love and the amusement of a bed companion that doesn't find his partner's explicit need anything but endearing. He starts the actual stroking to my member and it is as if it has always been this way, as if I'd never had to long for him in the dark and uncertain that he'd be thinking of me in the same, lustful terms. He knows me so well that he could have been making love to me since forever.

Every brush of his skin against mine is infinite in its love and eroticism, and fuck but I need this, it takes me away from everything and makes me feel so sublimely alive. If I was put in this world so that Lucius could play me this way, I feel achieved. My hungry responses to his touch are perfect in their essence, perfectly fitting to what I know he wants and deserves. It is not an effort for me to please him; of that is composed my very nature.

Rapture overcomes him at the sight of my parted lips in the soundless echo of a moan.

Arousal drips from every pore of me: my breath is failing me and my hair is damp. My hardened cock needs no other lubricant than its own abundant juices. Father can make me wet, hard and languid, whimpering to the man that is my lover that he.. please... not.. ssstop. The sounds linger in my throat at his choice as the hand caressing my member squeezes its base; I my eyes lose focus and all I see is silver, all I want is the creamy paleness that we share, him and I. As the strong grip slides to the head the muscles in my insides involuntarily tighten and the pressure to the fingers there make a fingernail dig in that gland. I choke out a breathless moan. The fingers inside me part to make more room, their pattern of movement according to my rocking hips and circular in order to stretch me.

And can't but widen my eyes and stop in mid-thrust as there's insertion of a third finger, this invasion is coarse and my tissues protest, I ache as my lower body presses firmly against the hand around my erection, I ache and I know I'm bleeding now, I wish he'd deign himself to taste it, his tongue is so wonderfully wicked at all times but especially inside me. But his mouth is busy somewhere else right now.

His lips only do as much as glide over mine, it's his tongue that makes the actual contact in a teasing prod at my upper lip. He pours kisses over my face, my cheekbone, my nose, my forehead. Sucks at my chin, and now my arousal is being stroked, Father knows my preferences, knows my rhythm, and the fingers press against my sensitised and swollen prostate and can I do anything other than gasp and twist my body insanely in search of more contact, more of him inside and around me. Yes, I want him around me, the fingers around my member increase their pressure in a faint simulation of how it is to enter him.

Why should Father be so tight, given that he's no virgin, is beyond me. Maybe he's not the slut that I am, have always been. Until my commitment to him ceased to be just a very distant wet dream, that is. Oh, Father. How long have I wanted you? And to have him, far from making the longing stop, has made it all the stronger. It is now overwhelming and bigger than me. He has always been.

I'm reaching a critical point here and it is no secret, for I'm a loud bitch for all it's worth. My moans can be like meows, and at times they are deep enough to arouse Father further, even more when I can articulate. My thrusts are quicker and their intensity is great, it transpires my need for relief, for the nirvana that is Father's privilege to bring to me by means of his presence. My hips move, thrusting into the tight pressure around my member, in time with the fingers that expertly find my bleeding prostrate. My movements are commonly described as fluid, and now is no exception. As a matter of fact, Lucius says that I'm particularly graceful in bed, a natural acrobat of the sheets, a lover he can't but adore, and it is what he breathes against my collarbone. And I'm all heat and juices and aching hardness and I know that this is how he likes me best, as his teeth scratch teasingly at my arm. My cheeks are flushed with the arousal that is written all over me, shows in the redness staining the covers and my legs, my pristine legs, sacred as my figure that will gladly get on the knees to suck Father's cock.

The taste of him, the feel of him, my eyes are closed and yet I see him, he glows in the dark. I thrust further, I am invaded deeper by the digits inside of me, Come, Love, he commands gently, Come for me, Draco, I know he means and I'd never deny him that.

All of me is weeping. Droplets exit my eyes, my cock, my arse. Salty, two of them sticky and one is bright red.

"What is this blood, Draco?"

I am panicking. It happens time and again and my reactions are the exact same, as are his. It's pure torture to watch it over and over, taste that despair caused by the expression in his eyes and not do a thing but go along with it.

I look up at him, eyes wide and filled with all the doubts and fears of the world.

"It was you, Father." Never another. "Never another." My voice is firm in that after-thought, those words that have become my mantra during the last days.

"I was never here for the night."

He points out, eyebrows arched, slight worry creeping into his features and I realise he can see the depth of my state, but then he isn't looking at me anymore, his gaze is focused somewhere lower. Searching what drew his attention from me, shimmering and moisty red catches my eyes. My hand is covered in it.

He fades away, his troubled face lingering before my eyes for a moment more. But I don't much care, since he was never here in the first place.

I know now what I did, and I feel ashamed. That won't stop me from repeating it, but neither can I help feeling so weak.

He wouldn't want me to seek someone else... least of all should I appear sad to him. It would destroy him and make him question us, and those are the last things I want. So I have no choice but to turn to myself, wallow in my hell, tentatively reach out from the depths of my self-pity to embrace him when he comes. All that to crawl back down and hold myself in a tight ball of shame.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little shorter... guess it was the lack of introduction/interaction/sappy dialogues. Meet my Draco, depressive little bitch that he is. But he's got reasons... Now, on to the usual. Feedback. Please!


End file.
